Sticking the Landing
by RadioShack84
Summary: Reese and Finch experience a few detours and false starts on their path back to their partnership. Missing scenes and aftermath of "4C".


Disclaimer: I don't own Person of Interest. Written for enjoyment, not money.

* * *

Reese had no idea how long he'd sat in the airport terminal, watching the planes come and go and wondering if harrowing experiences awaited any other passengers during their journeys. Owen, at least, was on his way to a safe house, Holly was on her way to her hotel with his promise that he'd try to contact her before she returned to the States, and John was officially off the clock.

_Hopefully not for long, though_.

The unbidden thought startled him so much that he abruptly sat straight in the uncomfortable plastic chair and winced as various muscles protested the length of time spent occupying the abusive furniture. Pushing his new baseball cap up from his eyes, he noticed that the sky outside was growing dark and realized that he must have dozed off. A glance at his watch confirmed that he'd been out for at least two hours, maybe more. Damn. He got to his feet and stretched gingerly, injuries new and old reminding him of their presence. At the same time, he turned a slow circle, automatically searching for threats. Luckily, there didn't appear to be any. He chastised himself nevertheless as he went about cleaning up the sandwich, pizza, and candy wrappers he'd somehow accumulated following Owen's departure.

He'd been sloppy, and not just with the food. Anyone could have spotted him sitting there in the open. He knew better, and was far more careful as he indirectly made his way out of the airport. Stopping in one of the shops, he bought a black pullover sweater and changed into it in the men's room one level down. He purchased a bottle of water from a vending machine, casually circled the vicinity of the rental car counter for a few minutes while he drank it, and, finally convinced that no one was following him, stepped outside and joined the throngs of tourists and locals who were busy living their lives. Without the Machine's intervention, they may well have been gaping at the calamity of rescue workers cleaning up a plane crash instead, Reese mused darkly and then shook his head at the notion as he hailed a cab. He wasn't sure he was ready to give the Machine quite that much credit - even if its information had, once again, proven accurate.

By the time the cab deposited him near the city center, John's stomach was rumbling. Food sounded terrible, but an empty pit seemed to be slowly forming in his midsection despite the airport fare he'd consumed some hours earlier, and he strolled along with the masses until he came to a small cafe. He ordered bread and soup and strong coffee and came away less nauseated and more awake than he'd expected. The city was beautiful and active at night, and he wandered it aimlessly for hours, lost in too many ways to count.

He wound up on a park bench, like so many he'd sat on while doing surveillance and listening to Finch jabber in his ear, like so many he'd sat on _before_ Finch. Before the Machine. Before Carter.

John wept - but not like the night she'd been killed. Those tears had been tainted with adrenaline, shock, anger, physical pain. This was pure grief and pure loss. This was the necessary flood that had been held back for far too long already, and it was relentless in its destruction. It blasted through every barrier of denial, shattered every shield of indifference, stripped selfish self-pity away, and left behind a wounded man who needed desperately to get back home but couldn't bear the thought of a destination so foreign as it would be without her there.

He pulled his jacket closer around himself and for the first time didn't have enough good reason or bad booze to ignore the aching void at his core. He let himself ache with it, and as his breathing gradually normalized, so did the emptiness, settling into a familiar place near his memories of Jessica where it would be difficult, but maybe not impossible, for him to carry. A bracing wind was coming in off the ocean, and Reese closed his eyes, feeling it wick away the remnants of moisture from his skin and just a little of the heaviness he'd been lugging around these past weeks.

Some time later his phone buzzed, and he was surprised to find that it was already 5 a.m. Holly would be leaving in a few hours, but by her own admission would surely be awake by now. Digging in his pocket, John came up with the card for her hotel and after a moment of hesitation he dialed the number.

They met on the hotel's back terrace an hour later, and had a too-short breakfast together. Holly was the type of person that he could have talked to all day long, but to his great relief she wasn't one to pry. They shared some stories, some minimal personal details, and were able to laugh about parts of their shared experience the day before until it was time for her to leave. Both of them were realistic enough to know that, at least for now, this couldn't go beyond breakfast. Realism didn't stop the unfamiliar twinge of longing Reese felt as her cab drove away, though. He turned to go...somewhere...and froze in his tracks as he caught sight of an unmistakable shock of spiky brown hair atop a perfectly-pressed collar across the way.

* * *

Before his heart had even stopped pounding following the plane's nerve-racking touchdown in Rome, Finch's fingers were already racing over his keyboard, making arrangements for another flight. He needed to get to Italy as soon as possible. Safe houses only went so far in protecting people, and every moment Owen Matthews was left to his own devices was another moment for someone to attempt to finish what the Lanceros, Mossad, and Shaw's former employers had started.

John was right: he had built the Machine without due consideration of its far-reaching impact. He'd done his best, of course, but it hadn't been near good enough and he'd lost plenty as a result. Nathan and Grace for starters, then the numbers he hadn't been able to help on his own, and now Detective Carter and most likely John as well. Finch sighed as he packed up two laptops and various other equipment he would need for his trip. A small part of him remained hopeful, since Reese had sounded more like himself when conversing with Holly just now, but Harold's cynical side told him that it was probably just the adrenaline talking. The John Reese that had walked out of his library yesterday had had no intention of coming back.

That was the other reason for Finch's travel plans - not to convince John to return home, because he had no delusions that he could do so - but to make sure his friend was all right and to express his hope that John would at least stay in contact from time to time. The Machine had pulled Reese back from the brink of his disappearing act once, but only because it had deemed him necessary to complete the mission. Finch couldn't count on it taking such an action a second time, and Reese knew how to stay off the grid. If he decided to go to ground, Harold knew that finding him would be virtually impossible and John might end up truly lost.

Pushing that thought firmly aside, Finch headed for the stairs. His next couple of hours were spent arranging flight plans with his pilot and, once in the air, arranging a new identity for Owen. To his surprise, John called him shortly after takeoff, but it was a brief conversation and strictly business. Reese had confirmed Owen's destination and the instructions he'd given the young hacker, and then hung up without a goodbye or any indication of his plans. Gone was the light tone of voice and the joking from before, and it sparked an urgency in Finch that kept him awake halfway across the Atlantic.

Luckily, Owen Matthews was smart and had stayed at the safe house, because Harold was ashamed to admit that he'd have had a hard time persuading himself to track down the young man had he decided to run. As it was, he exchanged only the barest of pleasantries with Owen upon arriving, handed him the new identification papers, cautioned him to be more careful in his future endeavors, and left. Finch pulled his phone from his pocket before he was even out of the building, immediately activating the app he'd written on the flight over. In short order it told him that none of John's aliases had purchased a burner phone from any of the vendors near the airport, so it was likely that Reese was still carrying the phone he'd used while on the plane.

Finch's hope reasserted itself as the tracking software picked up the phone's signal, then back-traced its GPS. The results were somewhat surprising. If John had the phone, he wasn't being at all careful to conceal his whereabouts. Harold still doubted it counted as an invitation, but decided it was his prerogative to misconstrue it as such.

He tracked the phone into the city and found a table in an inconspicuous, but not obscure, location. After a time, Reese exited the building across the way with Holly. In the couple of glances Harold took in their direction while they talked, John looked happy, but in Finch's experience that didn't mean much. John had been known to look very happy right before he shot someone in the kneecaps. So, to test the waters when Reese eventually took the seat across from him, he said simply, "She seems nice."

"You tracked me down, Harold."

Finch wasn't sure if it was a statement or an accusation, but as was their custom when it came to such matters, he responded indirectly, "Just flew in to get Owen situated with a new identity and destination."

"Is that it?" John challenged.

It certainly wasn't, so he set aside his newspaper and got straight to the point, studying Reese carefully as he addressed the difficulties the Machine presented. His friend hardly reacted, so he pressed on to the real issue at hand. "I miss her dearly, too."

Instantly, John's blank expression crumbled. It was replaced by pain so deep that Harold was almost sorry to have brought it up. Reese shifted in his chair, unshed tears in his eyes, and for a moment Finch was sure he was going to take off. Just as quickly, though, John collected himself, cleared his throat, and settled back into his seat, although he carefully avoided eye contact. "When are you leaving?"

"Soon. I thought I would go see this exhibit at the Giorgio de Chirico House-Museum, an artist that Grace was very fond of," Finch said, indicating an ad in the newspaper. "You're welcome to join me," he added hopefully, but his heart dropped when John apologetically turned him down.

Reese hadn't stopped talking, though. "While I'm in Italy, I thought I'd get fitted for a new suit."

Harold looked up sharply at that, and felt his jaw follow the trajectory of his heart before he could hide his shock. He resisted the urge to grin and played along. "Oh, of course..."

* * *

It was a good thing that Reese hadn't been standing in the street when he'd spotted Harold, because the conflict that arose within him took the space of several seconds to resolve and in that time he was rooted to the ground by uncertainty, unable to move. When he'd left New York, he'd left for good. Finch had claimed he respected that decision, and Reese had come to the conclusion in the wee hours of the morning that that decision had likely been wrong, but none of it mattered now. Finch was _here_ and Reese found that he was no longer sure of anything.

His initial response of anger was fleeting, for it seemed as though that particular emotion had finally bled itself dry during his visit to the park, but Harold's presence was symbolic of heavy things - New York and the numbers and loss - and John could feel their enormous, claustrophobic gravity tearing at him. He could still leave. He could dump the phone Finch had been using to track him. He could take a cab back to the airport and be on a plane to anywhere in an hour. He could think about running all he wanted, but his feet were already carrying him toward the only place he needed to be. Every step closer to that table was one further away from the possibility of forgetting, but Harold's presence was symbolic of home, too, and that was a strong enough pull to keep him on course.

It was a collision course, as he'd expected, and when Finch brought up the Machine and Carter with little preamble, it was all John could do to hold his composure. He knew what Harold was attempting to do - to let him know that he wasn't alone in his grief - but alone or not he just didn't have the capacity to face it any further at present. He asked Finch when he was leaving, which thankfully steered the conversation to more tolerable topics until he found an opening to say what was really on his mind.

Harold stared at him in open-mouthed shock then, and John almost smiled when his friend started chattering excitedly about a tailor named Gianni. Truth be told, he didn't really need a new suit, but it was as good a way as any to spend the day and the prospect of spending it with Harold, doing something as mundane as shopping, brought him a sense of indescribable peace. He stood up from the table quickly and started walking.

Finch followed and dialed his phone, speaking in Italian to someone on the other end. "Gianni is expecting us at 2:30," he reported after a few moments. "That will give me enough time to stop by the museum yet this morning. Will you join me, or do you have other matters to attend to, Mr. Reese?"

John shrugged. Since he hadn't been figuring on coming to Italy in the first place, it wasn't as though he had made plans. "Lead the way, Finch." They walked in companionable silence for a few more blocks, before Finch hailed a cab and instructed the driver to their destination.

Reese's interest held through roughly the first fifteen minutes of the museum tour, and ten of those fifteen could have more accurately been described as interest in Finch's interest. The older man was enthralled, but distant at the same time. When the tour reached its conclusion and guests were allowed to peruse the pieces on their own, Harold stopped in front of a particular painting and stood studying it without a word. Reese was all too familiar of late with the haunted expression on his friend's face, and he quietly stepped away, giving Finch some privacy.

Maybe he shouldn't have come along. Art had never really been his cup of tea, and, personally, he found this artist's work a bit unsettling. Everywhere he turned there were faceless, mannequin-like figures, somehow staring down at him from the walls despite their lack of eyes. Many were missing limbs, too, or had hard, sharp-angled structures resembling buildings protruding from their torsos as though they had been impaled by them. He couldn't help but be reminded of the numbers, of their anonymity and their ignorance of the danger presented by the city that surrounded them. Did these paintings portray the world as it had looked before the Machine? Did it really look any different now - skewed and violent and disjointed and trying to pass for normal?

If good artwork was supposed to evoke an emotional response, de Chirico must have been one of the greats. John felt so off-kilter after a quick circuit of the room that all he could think about was escape. He burst through the door of the museum so quickly that he startled a group of pigeons. They ruffled their feathers and warbled at him in annoyance for a moment before deciding the scraps of bread they'd collected were more important than confrontation. They went back to eating and he strode off down the sidewalk.

* * *

A paper airplane sailed silently through the air, bisecting Finch's field of view and breaking the melancholy trance he'd been drifting in. He took a deep breath and a step back from the painting and his eyes followed the plane's path to where it came to rest precariously on top of a glass display case. A young boy of perhaps eleven hurried over a moment later, hesitated when he saw Harold watching him, and then snatched the museum-brochure-turned-aircraft from the case before ducking out of sight.

It was then that Finch noticed he was alone. John liked to wander, so that wasn't unusual. He also liked to keep tabs on people, though, so when he didn't reappear in the time it took Finch to make his way through to the front room, Harold felt a twinge of uneasiness. His friend had seemed genuinely relaxed as they'd made their way here, and he'd been hoping that Reese was finally coming down, reaching equilibrium after their recent ordeal. Now, he couldn't help but worry that it had all just been a ruse of distraction by the ex-operative so he could slip away, especially since John's phone was presently failing to register in the tracking software. Finch inquired of the museum receptionist, though, and learned that a man fitting Reese's description had left in a hurry half an hour before.

The information didn't improve his anxiety much, but it was at least a clue. From what he knew of the area, Finch made an educated guess and once again began the search for his wayward employee. It wasn't in an outdoor cafe or in the green space he'd been heading toward that he found John, though. It was someplace rather more obvious, and he wondered why he hadn't thought of it at the start - the library was only a few blocks from the museum, and Reese was seated in plain sight on a stone bench just outside the entrance. His eyes were directed at the ground, and he had his jacket drawn tightly around himself. Harold could relate. The day had warmed nicely in the sun, but shaded areas still carried the chill of the night before and the concrete seating surface was quite unpleasant as he joined the other man. "I believe the library is open, Mr. Reese, if you're looking for something to read."

John glanced up at him blankly. "What?"

"The library," Harold repeated, crooking a thumb over his shoulder. "If you're planning to stay for a while, I'm sure it's warmer inside. The chairs are more comfortable too." Finch smiled, but Reese didn't return it. In fact, as he read the sign above the door of the building, John paled a little and started shaking his head, as though he'd just realized where he was.

"Harold, I didn't...I can't stay...go back...I have to go," Reese stuttered, his voice hoarse, and he might have said more but he suddenly started coughing harshly.

The spell lasted for nearly half a minute and Harold frowned, resting his hand on Reese's left shoulder. When John flinched at the contact, his frown deepened. Reese's entire demeanor had spoken of weariness from the moment they'd met up that morning, but Finch had passed it off as the residual effects of a particularly stressful case. Now, though, he took the time to really look at the other man, who was slowly getting his breathing under control if not much else. John's face was lined with pain and he was hunched forward with his left hand carefully bracing his still-tender right side.

"You're not well."

Reese shook his head again. "Just tired, Finch," he rasped.

It wasn't up for debate as far as Harold was concerned, what with the dark circles under the younger man's eyes, the slight flush across his cheekbones, and his apparent inability to stop shivering. "I believe the hotel has a warm bed and some aspirin with your name on it just the same, Mr. Reese."

"I can't. I have to -"

"Get some rest," Finch said firmly over his objection. Knowing John, the last time he'd had more than an hour or two of sleep was probably while he'd been locked up in Colorado four days ago. The irritated glare Reese was shooting his way all but confirmed it. Finch met the silent challenge evenly for a moment before letting the severity fade from his expression and his tone. "That should have been our first stop anyway. It's been a hell of a week, John, for both of us. I suspect that whatever loose ends remain will keep for a few more hours."

Reese didn't answer, but didn't show any indication of leaving either. Harold took it as tacit agreement and stood to hail a cab.

* * *

The return trip to the hotel lasted only a few minutes, and it was testament to his true level of fatigue that John scarcely paused to change clothes before gingerly sliding under the covers. That he'd sought out the aspirin on his own worried Finch a little, but it had been his state of mind outside the library and his complete lack of commentary on the topic of sharing a hotel room that Harold found most unsettling. Either he was feeling worse than he was letting on, or he was still on the fence about coming home.

Not liking the first scenario and unwilling to accept the second, Finch pulled the curtains closed and switched off the lamp on the nightstand next to Reese before he returned to his laptop and tried to distract himself with work until his own case of jetlag caught up with him and he could no longer see straight. He removed his suit jacket and tie and hung them up in the closet before stretching out on the other bed. He didn't remember falling asleep, but that was the only possible explanation for why he suddenly found himself remote-operating another aircraft. The frightened faces of the passengers were clearly visible on the computer monitor in front of him: Reese, Shaw, Fusco, _Grace_. Dear God. He looked down at his hands. His knuckles were white, fingers locked around the plastic simulator controls. He looked up at the monitor and tried to focus on the runway. It was coming up quickly. Too quickly. He was going to be long, and this time there was no avoiding it.

The plane touched down and bounced. Once. Twice. On the third impact a terrible screech of metal echoed through his speakers as the left landing strut gave way and the wing shredded against the tarmac. Sparks ignited into a bright flash and the screen washed white, then flickered away to static. Harold cried out, instantly coming awake. He sat up so quickly that pain shot through his neck and spine and he started to tip backward again, but Reese's blurry form suddenly appeared at his side and halted his descent.

"I couldn't land it, John. Y-you were...Grace...all those people…" he blurted, covering his face with shaking hands as John slowly guided him to a more stable sitting position. A light switched on to his right and when he finally looked up, Reese was holding out his glasses. "Thank you."

With a slight nod Reese let go of his arm, retreated a couple of steps, and sat down on the edge of the other bed, regarding Finch through half-lidded, but concerned, eyes. "You okay, Harold?"

Finch exhaled a long breath and massaged his aching neck, regaining a measure of calm. "No, Mr. Reese, but I will be. Considering recent events, I'm quite surprised I haven't had more nightmares. I'm sorry I woke you."

"Not sure if it was you or the couple next door."

For half a second Harold gave him a questioning look, but then he registered the sounds coming through the wall and grimaced. "Delightful. They couldn't have waited for a more decent hour?"

"It's eight o'clock at night, Finch, but I can go take care of it if you want," John said with a smirk.

Finch shot his friend a mildly-reproachful look. "While I appreciate your continued eagerness to get back to work, I don't think that this particular situation warrants your intervention, Mr. Reese."

John shrugged noncommittally and yawned. "We'll see about that ten minutes from now."

Harold shook his head, but couldn't help the hint of a smile he felt tugging at his lips. "How are you feeling?"

Reese started to shrug again, but stopped himself as the fork wound twinged. "Sore," he answered vaguely.

Finch noted the duvet that John had pulled up around his shoulders while they'd been talking, the rough quality of his voice, the stiffness of his posture, and decided it all amounted to 'not much better than before'. He didn't seem to be any worse, though, which was encouraging.

"Sorry about the appointment with Gianni, Harold."

Pulled from his reverie by the soft-spoken words, Finch found Reese looking at him almost shyly. He'd have wondered at the reason for such a rare expression of uncertainty, but something in John's voice made him quite sure that this apology was of deeper significance than to make amends for a missed appointment. It was also entirely unnecessary, but Harold nodded in acceptance anyway for John's benefit, not breaking eye contact until he was satisfied that his own unspoken message had been received as well. "I'm sure it won't be a problem to reschedule for tomorrow if you're up to it," Finch added.

"And our flight home?"

At that innocuous question, Harold's heart began to pound and images of burning aircraft debris flashed through his mind. He felt his hands start to shake, too, and quickly clasped them together in his lap. He'd had no trouble getting on the plane to Italy yesterday, just minutes after managing a terrifying remote landing of Reese's plane that had saved well over a hundred lives. One bad dream later, though, and here he was on the verge of panic at the mere mention of flying. Annoyed at his own foolishness, Finch took a few deep breaths as he tried to formulate an answer. He spared a glance at John in the process and was shocked to see his discomfort mirrored on the other man's face. Suddenly, he had an idea. "How would you feel about spending Christmas here in Rome, Mr. Reese?"

John tilted his head to one side, considering it. "I hear they have a midnight Mass that's second to none."

"A much better place to be on Christmas Eve than an airport," Finch allowed.

"And the weather in New York is terrible anyway."

"It seems we're in agreement, then."

Reese nodded once before reaching over to switch off the lamp. Harold heard the soft rustling of sheets and an even softer sigh of what might have been relief as John settled back into bed. Finch placed his glasses on the nightstand and followed suit.

"G'night, Harold," John's voice mumbled sleepily from across the room.

"Good night, John."

In the darkness, Finch smiled. They had been up in the air, following detour after detour, colliding forcibly and repeatedly with realities old and new for four grueling weeks, and yet had somehow ended up here: on an unplanned vacation due to a mutual and newly-developed fear of flying. Most people wouldn't have seen the humor in the situation, but Harold couldn't help it. For the first time in a long time the ground was firm and level beneath them, and he didn't particularly care how it had gotten there. They had finally landed, and that was the only thing of any importance.


End file.
